


Little Black Dress

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dress Up, Dress shopping, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Finger Sucking, Formalwear, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy, but not really, well sort of a plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 09:57:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3645984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene and Molly's relationship with clothes, and how they feature in the fantasies of each.<br/>(sexiness in a variety of outfits)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Black Dress

It was strange, Molly thought, to be like this with Irene. To be so normal, so ordinary and everyday, was in itself extraordinary. The sun was shining after the rain, and water trickled lazily down the gutter-pipes, tinkling and clattering like glass beads. There were puddles on the pavement, tinted golden by the sunlight. Irene avoided them expertly, her high heels clicking on the concrete paving slabs in an oddly efficient tone like the clattering of keys on a type-writer. Molly pattered hurriedly behind her, flat shoes hardly making a sound.

“Wait, what are we doing this for again?” she asked.

“Darling, I told you, I’m taking you out to dinner, and I want to display you properly. For that, I want to get you a pretty dress, sweetheart.” Irene told her, just a little irritated, her girlish excitement at the prospect bubbling up at the edges of her tone, the corners of her lips twitching up into the semblance of a smile.

“Oh.” Molly said, remembering. “Right.” She wasn’t sure how she felt about it. Inside she had doubts – oh, Irene could pull off the most gorgeous things, but she had glamour, beauty, sparkle. Things Molly was sure that she herself did not have. She was worried that Irene would pick one of the sheer, undulating things she always wore, and expect her to wear them. This was not, Molly thought, a particularly appetising prospect. Irene thought entirely differently.

Indeed, the idea of Molly in a dress – dark blue, perhaps, or wine red – that clung to her figure, emphasising what curves there were, was something that Irene liked to tease over in her imagination when she had the time. She could play out the scene minutely in her mind’s eye.

Molly would come in, wearing the dress, a black jacket wrapped over her shoulders. She would be tired, after a night out, perhaps, and would have assumed that glorious expression she had when sleepy. Her eyes would be heavy-lidded, one quarter closed. Her rosy lips would be resting in a contented, dreamy smile, dimples hinting in her pink-flushed cheeks. She would stretch slightly, slowly, deliciously, like a cat in the morning, and shrug the coat from her body.

It would fall to the floor, and in her imagination Irene could follow each fold as it crumpled onto the dark wood (they would be in the hall of Irene’s house, normally, in this particular fantasy, though the location varied). Then Molly would look up, eyes bright with fatigue, surveying her surroundings, and her smile would lengthen the slightest bit at the edges, creasing the dimples fully in her cheeks.

The dress would be tight enough that Irene could see the contours of her body beneath it, the perfect collarbones which were her splendour peeking from the dark fabric, her creamy shoulders at the sides, the dress’s straps faintly indenting the flesh. The lines of her breasts and stomach could be discerned beneath the fabric, too, and Irene would trace the shapes she knew so well with her eyes, note the way Molly’s hips curved in that girlish manner that she loved so much.

Molly would see the look in Irene’s eye, and a slight crease would come to her eyebrow, and for a second she would look confused and naïve, before she realised what was happening and smiled in earnest, opening her twinkling eyes fully. Irene would smirk wickedly in return and take a step forward, the heels of her black shoes tip-tapping on the parquet. She would slide her own jacket from her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor as Molly’s had done.

Then she would advance, and press a finger to Molly’s cheek, and Molly would take a breath, hesitant, expectant. Irene would press her mouth to Molly’s then, to the tiniest of gasps from the younger woman. She could taste Molly’s lips against hers, the faint flavour of the peach lip-gloss Molly used, the hotness of her tongue as it tangled with Irene’s own, the sweet warmth of the crevices of her mouth.

After an eternity, Irene would pull back, still composed, leaving Molly panting slightly, leaning against the occasional table. Irene would pause, then, and reach up to her mouth, wiping the smudged scarlet of her lipstick onto the back of her hand before she turned back to Molly, the seductress smile still playing on her now unpainted lips.

“What do you want, Molly?” she’d ask, and the younger girl would look up at her, her perfect mouth forming into a little, puzzled o. “Don’t you know?” Irene would taunt. “Or can’t you tell me.”

“I-I can,” Molly would say, tentatively, after a moment. “But you know already, Irene. I want you to make me feel. You know you can make me feel.”

“I do, I do. The things I make you feel… You love them, don’t you? Is that the only reason you come to me, Molly, just for the pleasure, or do you actually like me?”

“Oh, I like you.” Molly would say, eyes dancing, mouth stretched into a taunting smirk. “But you make me feel like I’m burning from the inside.”

“Oh, do I now?” Irene raised an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be a compliment, Molly Hooper, or a cleverly disguised insult?”

Molly would part those wonderful lips to answer, but meet only Irene’s finger pressed against them, gentle but insistent. “Shh, now, Molly, dear. I’m working.” Irene would say, and slip the finger downwards, depressing the peachy flesh of Molly’s lips before she slid it into the younger woman’s mouth, leaving it for Molly to suck on as she reached her other hand questing under the collar of Molly’s dress.

She’d explore, then, agonisingly slowly, caressing Molly’s breasts (she wore no bra in Irene’s private fantasy, and as she’d been kissing her Irene had seen the nipples hardening under the fabric, the nubs showing like little pin-pricks through the silk), rubbing her fingers in ever tightening circles over her hard nipples and teasing with her hands, moulding at the flesh, eliciting breathy moans from Molly.

Then she’d take her hand away from Molly’s breasts and move downwards, manoeuvring Molly to sit on the table before grabbing a handful of fabric and pushing the skirt up against Molly’s legs to reveal the dampened black silk and lace of Molly’s pants.

“My, my,” she’d say. “You _are_ enjoying this, my dear, now aren’t you? How wet you are…” she’d whisper, breathing the words over Molly’s ear. “How deliciously, sumptuously wet… What would you like, Molly? Would you like me to put my tongue down there, to lick up all your juices and spread them around you, play my tongue over your clit and make you moan, make you rock back and forth on those pretty little hips of yours, make you beg and cry, until you came all over my tongue and I lapped it up and kissed you with your taste still on my lips?” she’d ask, pausing to nibble at the waxy flesh of Molly’s ear, her hand cupping Molly through the now sodden fabric of her underwear and rotating, fondling her sensitive parts as Molly moaned around the fingers in her mouth, sucking harder and harder.

“Like that, do you, Molly?” she’d say teasingly, slowly drawing Molly’s pants down her legs until they lay discarded on the floor beside her coat. “Oh, you are pretty, my Molly,” she’d murmur. “So very pretty… Will you open up for me, baby? Will you do that?”

She’d rub her hand down the cleft, over the folds before parting them gently, and exposing what she’d been brought up as calling ‘private parts’. Not so private now, were they? She would wet her fingers in the stickiness already there and then rub her slick fingers against Molly’s clit, dragging her nails across. The sudden roughness caused Molly to cry out slightly, but Irene simply smiled, and rubbed with her fingertips more, inserting one finger into Molly’s opening and twisting it around.

Molly would be rocketing by this point, her body jolting and grinding in a frantic effort to come closer to Irene, her breathing hard and fast, whimpering and moaning in equal measure. “Oh, Molly, Molly, you always were so loud.” she’d chide. “Shall I give you what you want, darling? Would you like that?”

She’d remove her fingers from Molly’s mouth, then, licking the wetness from them with a long pink tongue before she slid downwards, and teased that same tongue over Molly’s folds. Then she would set about it in earnest, licking and nipping and exploring for all she was worth, fingers still working at the most sensitive parts.

Molly would quickly be tottering closer to the edge, now, her mouth wide, her body shuddering in time to Irene’s ministrations. “A-a-ah…oh _God,_ oh god, Irene…” she’d moan, and after a second or so she’d come to a rest, and Irene would taste the visceral, fleshy sweetness as Molly’s come seeped out across her tongue.

Molly would half-collapse against her then, spent and exhausted, and Irene would smile, and lift her up, and carry her upstairs to bed.

But that was far away from now. Now, they were dress shopping, not having sex, which was an unusual situation for them, and Molly was not sure she was entirely comfortable in it. She couldn’t help thinking that there’d be a catch to something like this. There almost had to be, with Irene.

**Author's Note:**

> What would you like to see Irene or Molly wearing? Comment and tell me - I'll consider all suggestions, and perhaps they'll feature.


End file.
